


The Events Following All Hallow's Eve, 1981

by pumpkinscript



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1981, Bartemius Crouch - Freeform, Bartemius Crouch Jr. - Freeform, Barty Crouch Jr. - Freeform, Death Eater Trials, Death Eaters, Department of International Magical Cooperation, Downfall of Voldemort, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gender-Neutral Main Character, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Harry Potter - Freeform, Hogwarts, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Kissing, M/M, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Mostly Canon Compliant, Murder, Murder Kink, Neville's parents die, Non-Canonical Character Death, Not Beta Read, Original Character(s), Other, Post-Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Pre-Barty Crouch Jr. in Azkaban, Pre-Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Pre-Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, S&M, Sex, Young(er) Barty Crouch Jr., gender-neutral oc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-26 20:28:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20395687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pumpkinscript/pseuds/pumpkinscript
Summary: *Currently on Hold*After the downfall of Voldemort on the night of October 31st, 1981, it slowly becomes quite evident to (y/n) that the handsome Barty Crouch Jr., who they see around the Ministry every now and then when they visit with their father, isn't as thrilled about it as everyone else seems to be.A month after the news of You-Know-Who's "death", a terrible loss shakes the Wizarding community. Barty, darker than he was years before, was not as innocent as (y/n) wanted to believe he was.Was the young man the Hogwarts student had caught feelings for truly as bad as their instincts were telling them he was?





	The Events Following All Hallow's Eve, 1981

I knew him through the Ministry. My father, William (y/l/n) was one of the Ministry employees; he was part of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, of which Barty Crouch Sr. was the head. I was, however, not originally referring to my father or Barty Senior when I said that I knew 'him' through the Ministry. 

Barty Senior's son, Barty Crouch Junior, wasn’t around very much. I rarely saw him, but, every now and again, I'd catch a glimpse of the man; on rare occasions, we'd exchange a word or two when my father let me come around to the Ministry with him. I didn't get to go to the Ministry very often; trying to make time for a seventeen year old to visit during the school week was difficult during their seventh year at Hogwarts. Barty was nineteen; he had been graduated for two years now, so it was safe to say that he was probably seen around more now than I was. 

The few times I had seen him up at the Ministry, though, he had always had a scowl on his face. He was always fighting with his father, and the conflict was never hidden well enough for my ears to miss it. I almost felt bad for him. His father wasn't universally known as the nicest man, and Barty seemed to know that better than anyone else. 

Today, the day after Halloween, I had been able to escape school for long enough to fit in a visit to the Ministry alongside my father. I was hoping to see Barty at the Ministry, but I wasn't holding my breath. We rarely crossed paths. I wished I could get to talk to him more often than I did; he seemed lonely to me. However, despite the constant aura of gloom that hung over him, he was sort of attractive. My father and I used Floo Powder to travel there, and as soon as we arrived in the sleek, black fireplace on the other side, I knew that something was wrong.

Or rather, right. 

Every single person I laid eyes on was smiling; cheering; patting someone on the back. I turned to my father, and the expression written across his features told me that he was just as clueless as I was.

Just then, a friend of ours, Elliot Renner, a coworker of my father's, came running by us and gave my father a hearty slap on the shoulder.

"Happy day, happy day, innit, (y/l/n)?" he shouted over the hullabaloo of the crowd.

"Happy day for what?" my father yelled back, clutching at his briefcase in his hand, making sure it wouldn't get away from him in the midst of the chaos.

Barty Crouch Senior waltzed past, a genuine grin cut across his face (something I had maybe only seen once or twice before) and made a comment on my presence (also something I had witnessed only once or twice about him). 

"Nice to see you, (y/n), William! Well, what are you just standing there for? Get to work! This is no day for idleness in the Ministry! Why aren't you smiling? Smile, William! Today has brought about enough cause for celebration!" I had never seen Mr. Crouch acting so oddly. He was light on his feet and his eyes were bright as anything.

"Celebration? What are we celebrating?" my father barked, angry that no one was giving any sort of answer.

I saw another friend of ours, Arthur Weasley passing by. He was trotting along contentedly, and he seemed to be humming something to himself. I heard a small "hurrah" leave his mouth in time with the tune he was holding.

My father spotted Arthur not long after I did and barked at him, "What the bloody hell are we celebrating, damnit?!" and nearly gave the ginger a heart attack by the looks of it. He smoothed down his robes and calmed himself before responding to my father. Though he had managed to come down from the slight look of terror he had given us a moment before, he was still positively brimming with energy. 

"Good lord, William, you really don't know?"

"No!" my father yelled back at him, the commotion still preventing any sort of conversation from being held at a regular volume. 

"I can't believe you haven't heard yet! Voldemort's gone!" at the mention of his name, my father grimaced strongly, but it seemed to give Arthur some sort of dynamism, as he gave a visible shiver and grinned even wider. "Ha! I said his name! I said the bloody bastard's name! He's gone, and he can't terrorise anyone anymore, William! He's dead! Voldemort's dead!"

"You're pulling my leg, aren't you?" my father said, wide-eyed and with a tint of awe and incredulity in his voice. "You're yanking my chain? Huh? Are you?" 

"I couldn't lie to you now if I tried!" Mr. Weasely mused. "He's gone, William, he's gone! Celebrate, because it's really happened! We're free, we're all free!"

"Hah!" my father put his hand to his forehead and laughed breathlessly to himself, then tuned to me. "Did you hear that, (y/n)? He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is gone! He's gone, kiddo, can you believe it?"

In all of the mayhem, I hadn't had a clearheaded moment to stop and think. 

_ Voldemort was gone? He was really gone? How was this even possible? _

My father grabbed hold of my hand and tugged me through the crowd, and, some odd thirty minutes later, we made our way to the fifth floor of the Ministry: The Department of International Magical Cooperation.

As soon as my father set his briefcase down next to the mahogany desk in his office, he cracked his knuckles, puffed his chest out, turned to me and said, "feel free to wander the fifth department for a little while. I have business to attend to!" He then strode confidently out of the office, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I looked around his small, rectangular office for a few minutes. It had barely changed since the last time I saw it, which must have been two or three months ago. To compensate for the fact that there were no windows in his office, he had hung numerous elaborate paintings by Oliver Cartwright and Roderick Plumpton. The paintings were nice, but I would have liked windows better. His office was unnaturally dark, and it was made even more so after one of his two lamps burnt out. He still hadn't replaced it. He had a tall bookshelf on one side of the room that was a nice maroon colour and had been painted gold around the trimming. The bottom shelves were home to books on the different continents of the world, various Wizarding schools and academies and the governments in Britain, Scotland and even a select few in France. The top part of the shelf was completely different from the bottom; an assortment of old Quidditch Awards and picture frames, which held moving photographs, the main person featured being myself. There were no pictures of him except for a photograph of the both of us after the Quidditch Cup of 1974. My father and I have both been huge Quidditch fans, the obsession dating back to as long as I could remember. I got on the Quidditch team at school my second year; I was a Beater... and a pretty good one, at that! I had been playing for the school ever since then. My father always told me that my house team was lucky to have me as a player. I'd always tell him to sod off, smirking and giggling at the flattery. I guess I take after him. He was a Beater himself for Hogwarts when he was younger. He was a Griffindor. "You were the best Quidditch player Hogwarts had ever seen!" I'd tell him. Then I'd add, with a snigger, "At least until I came along, at least!" making him choke back a laughter every single time.

I was pulled quickly out of my thoughts when I heard a sharp knock at the office door. I opened it, bathing the inside of the room with a fluorescent light much brighter than the one the small lamp gave off that sat in the corner. The man at the door, unlike everyone else I had come across today, was wearing a tremendous frown upon his face. His dark features sported many a bruise and showed off a large collection of scars that were so abundant I couldn't even begin to count them all.

"What's your name, then, sir?" I asked kindly, trying not to let his cantankerous attitude or off-putting countenance have any effect on me.

He scowled at me for a second and, disregarding my inquiry, asked in a strong Irish accent, "your father around?" 

"He'll be around the Ministry somewhere, right about now. He didn't tell me exactly where he had gone off to, though," I said, thinking to myself, then added, "I figure he hasn't gone too far." I gave a feeble smile again. In annoyance, I expected, he grunted a few words I didn't understand and turned to walk back down the hallway. I looked out after him as he went and watched him as he rounded the corner and disappeared out of sight.

I walked back into the office and shut the door behind me.

"Odd fellow," I muttered out loud to myself.

"Quite," remarked a voice from the corner of the room, where the shadow of the bookshelf canvassed the wall. I spun around and squinted my eyes. Leaning up against the side of the maroon bookshelf in a long, black leather trench coat was Barty Crouch Junior. 

I screwed up my face in annoyance and a bit of unease as I glared at him. "How the hell did you get in here?"

He, like the scowling man, ignored my question. He pushed himself off the bookshelf and stepped into the light of the lamp. For the first time in a while, I got a good look at his face. 

He looked different from when I last saw him. His previously dirty blonde hair had darkened to a light brown colour. His eyes had sunken in a bit and had dark bags under them, indicating a rough night's sleep. The freckles were still there, though, dotting his face like constellations. He looked exhausted... almost sickly. His tongue darted out of his mouth, once, then twice.

"You're celebrating, I expect?" he asked, and I noticed that his voice a bit deeper than it was last time. The bored tone of his voice had a tint of something else to it, but I couldn't quite place it.

"I guess so," I said. "The news of You-Know-Who's death had come as a surprise to me. I had no idea until me and my father got here this morning."

"He's not dead," Barty growled. 

"What makes you say so?" I asked, raising my eyebrows at him.

"I don't believe he is. Someone as powerful as him could not have possibly been eradicated in such a short period of time. He's not dead. Just... departed. Temporarily."

"What makes you so sure?" I said.

"Just am," his eyes landed back on me.

There was a moment of silence between us, and then he spoke again.

"I'll be leaving now. See you around."

He strode out the door quicker than I could return a "see you." 

_ What the hell was up with him? He was acting really strange. And so was that other man! Everyone else in the Ministry and, I'd expect the world, was celebrating right now. How come Barty and the other man were acting as they were? _

I brushed it off, grabbed a book from the bookshelf, sat down in the chair behind my father's desk, and began to read.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find my works on my Wattpad page @pumpkinscript
> 
> P.S. I thought it was super cool that chapter one ended up having exactly 1,981 words in it... sorta creeped me out for a second, considering the title of this work. I didn't plan it... crazy, innit?


End file.
